“If they know, if they really know—it was all my idea. You don’t know why you’re here. Pretend you don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Katherine snorts at that. “I am proud of what we did. Why would I pretend I’m not?”

“You have my sword,” Nevaeh says. She nudges Katherine. “Now say, ‘and my bow.’”

“Oh, my favorite nerd.” I put my head on her shoulder. “Will you still love me when we are sentenced to a dungeon of potatoes to peel?” I whisper.

Her laugh jostles me.

“Only if you peel my half,” she whispers back.

The door to the dean’s office opens after a century and a half, and Ms. Flores, the office admin, smiles at us like we’re here for a nice visit and ushers us inside. The office is as airless as the waiting area, with a big wooden desk and dark bookcases lining the walls.

The dean is a small man, older, with narrow shoulders. His fine gray hair is always parted deeply to the side. He’s got thick gray-and-black eyebrows, and usually has a pleasant face, but right now he looks like he’s been chewing on gravel. He gestures at the three heavy chairs in front of his desk that are waiting for us. Ms. Flores sits by the window with a clipboard on her knees, and the dean settles on the corner of his desk with his hands clasped in front of him.

Katherine reaches over for my hand, and I smile gratefully at her.

“Hello, girls,” the dean says. His voice has the slightest smooth southern ring to it, and it’s very gentle. He looks at each of us in turn. “I’m very sorry to see you here.” He’s smiling a little, and something about it turns the background hum of fear into a buzz in my ears.

I don’t know if we’re supposed to respond to that. I shift in my chair, glance over at Ms. Flores, who smiles at me kindly.

“Do you three know why I needed to call you in?”

“Dean Pembrooke, whatever it is, I’m sure it’s just me you should be talking to,” I say steadily, my voice serious.

“Is that right, Ms. Grant?” He lifts a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Because I am certainly looking forward to understanding this situation.”

I suck in a breath, a flicker of dread in my chest. “Dean, I can explain whatever it is you think—”

“Seniors are capricious,” he says to us, voice still gentle in a way that makes me want to duck. “They let off steam. They do teenager things. Maybe a little sneaking out past curfew.” He pauses, gazing out the window for a moment. “I remember doing that when I was your age.”